


The Twelve Days of Minewt 2k15

by Whookami



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: 12DaysofMinewt, M/M, Swearing, reference to past suicide attempt, reference to past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whookami/pseuds/Whookami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assortment of one-shots for the Twelve Days of Minewt MinewtBang. The ups and downs of two of our favourite Gladers, just in time for the holidays.</p><p>Day One: Dancing<br/>Day Two: Hope</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Rhythm of Our Own

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Dancing
> 
> Minho has asked his talented former dancer boyfriend for lessons. Much to both of their frustration, Minho shows zero talent when it comes down to it. If only he could get Newt to understand how important it is to him, but no matter how hard he tries, the blond can't hide the fact his patience is slipping.

** A Rhythm of Our Own **

“I don’t get it,” Newt sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose with one slender fingered hand. “You’re an amazing runner. You’re the most athletic guy I know. You’re capable of amazingly complex maneuvers on the football field,” his dark eyes bored down into Minho as he reached out a hand to help him up. “But you can’t dance worth shit, man.”

Minho accepted the hand gratefully, using it to help pick himself up from the floor. Newt might be lean, but he was surprisingly strong, and it hurt a little as the blond wrenched him back into a standing position. “That doesn’t mean it was cool to shove me like that, y'know, dumb shank,” the darker haired young man pointed out, rubbing his chest tenderly where the other had savagely pushed him. It hadn’t really hurt, it had come as more of a surprise, but Minho wasn’t above milking the injury a bit. Newt just might feel bad and take some pity on him later, preferably when they were back in the privacy of their shared flat. 

“You stepped on my foot,” Newt shot back, sadly not an ounce of sympathy in his angrily flashing eyes.

Minho wiggled his brows suggestively as he leered at the lanky boy’s body from head to toe. “You should be used to handling my weight on top of you by now.”

“Not all on my bloody foot, you giant pillock.”

Not sure what that last word meant, but certain it wasn’t meant kindly, the younger man decided to change his tack. “I’m sorry, Newt. I was really trying, it’s just so hard, remembering which foot moves where and when, and I got confused. I really need your help with this, so I can get better.”

Not exactly mollified, Newt snorted in derision. “Get better? Right now you’re dancing like a drunken nanny goat. The only way to get worse would be if I broke both your legs.”

Minho’s first instinct was to respond hotly, but, for once in his life, his love for the blond stopped him, rather than spurred him on. A harsh comment about how Newt managed to still dance fine despite having one bum leg hovered behind his lips before he swallowed it back. “A drunk nanny goat? How would you know?”

“The summers are boring in Chiltern. It’s rural hell. Nothing but alcohol and farm animals.” 

“Whoa. TMI, Newt.” Minho teased, his hands raised in the ‘stop’ position. “More than I needed to know about the young life of Britain’s number one prodigy.” 

A loud scoff came from the Englishman, his eyes gone hard and flinty as he looked away, past Minho, past anything anyone could see, save the blond himself. 

“I was just joking, Newt,” he said stepping forward, his hands instinctively going to rest on the other’s prominent hip bones. His thumbs traced slow circles over the flimsy fabric that clung to his sweaty skin, and Minho hummed soothingly deep in his throat. Slowly second by second he could feel the tension flowing out of the young dancer, his body leaning forward to press against his boyfriend’s.

“First rule about dating said prodigy?” Newt murmured softly, his voice coming out muzzled through the fabric of Minho’s t-shirt.

“Don’t talk about said prodigy’s past.”

“Second rule?”

“Don’t talk about said prodigy’s past.” It was a stifling rule, one that constantly vexed Minho. On some days he felt like he was only dating half a person, the other half shut away behind a thick vault door. He wanted to know all of the blond, to love every single thing about him that had brought him to this point, but Newt had slammed the vault in his face and locked it up as tight as a drum. 

Some of his frustration must have slipped through in his tone, because Newt pulled back and stared him in the eye. “You knew that was the deal long before we started actually dating.”

True. Minho had known from almost the get go that mention of his partner’s past was inviolate territory. Of course, when this whole thing had started, Newt had just been this young and beautiful creature, slightly haughty and with an accent that could make Minho hard in seconds. It had been nothing but rough and angry sex between them, their rivalry in class spilling over into their personal lives in a way that was almost cliché. They told each other how hated they were, how loathsome and insignificant, even as their bodies moulded together perfectly, lips swollen and sharp pants filling up the frequently lengthening holes in their dialogue. Then one night they had gotten drunk together, and Minho had taunted and flirted with the other boy as always. To his surprise, Newt had broken. So many words and tears had poured out of the young man that Minho had had no idea what to do. Instinctively, he’d held him together with his arms, soothing him with gentle touches and butterfly kisses. That had been the first night they had actually made love, and the night their relationship had turned into something entirely else. The only thing that remained the same was the rule about never discussing the blond’s past. Minho got used to it, but he never learned to like it. 

It was obvious in Newt’s eyes that he knew this. He could read the thoughts going through the younger man’s mind with an ease that was uncanny. The blond was a far harder enigma to make out, despite Minho’s best efforts. “Look, I’m sorry,” he apologized, the will to fight sapped from his body. “Can we please just continue? I promise to try harder.”

Newt remained still for a moment, carefully considering and evaluating. “You’re sure?” He asked finally, voice hesitant and so quiet that Minho almost missed it beneath the rise and fall of the music playing in the background. 

He looked so young in that moment, head bowed and arms pulled back to cross defensively over his thin chest. It was a painful reminder that Newt was still so uncertain at times, that despite a proper relationship three years strong and still running, he seemed ready to watch it break apart at any second. The ache echoed inside Minho’s chest, and he leaned in and kissed the boy gently before resetting his hands in the proper starting position for a waltz. He smirked with a show of his trademark confidence. “You ever known me not to be sure, Bucket?”

Newt rolled his eyes at the mocking pet name, colour returning to his face. “Whatever, you dumb shank,” he grumbled back in his usual tone, but accepted Minho’s hands all the same. His head began to slowly nod in time to the music, the rhythm lifting up his entire form until it seemed like he was in danger of floating away, carried upwards to the heavens. Only the balls of his feet and Minho’s hands kept him tied to the earth. At some unspoken cue in the piece, Newt told him to begin, and once more Minho did his best to lead his blond partner through the graceful movements. 

The whole affair was stop and start, awkward and frustrating for them both. Minho was a trained athlete, he had sublime control over his body, but he relied too heavily on instinct. Rather than conform to the strict patterns of the dance, his feet moved according to his own interpretation of the movements, of where his balance and traction would be optimal, rather than his placement being precise and delicate. Newt’s own body flowed easily, the steps second nature to him. Minho had seen a framed picture of the blond as a boy, dressed in a smart little suit, yet his face bored and placid as he held a trophy surmounted by a pair of golden dancers. The young girl on his arm looked thrilled, her eyes huge and tiny fingers digging into the sleeve of Newt’s finely pressed jacket. Dance was something the other had done all his life, though beyond that, Minho knew few details. The next time he had visited Newt’s flat after having noticed the photo, he had found it was conspicuously missing. 

“You aren’t paying attention!!” Newt snapped suddenly, tearing his hands free of Minho roughly. 

His mouth dropped open and he stared at the blond dumbfoundedly. Newt was really pissed, and he wasn’t sure why. Sure, his boyfriend wasn’t exactly a patient person most of the time, his words and mannerisms grumpy and acerbic. It had taken time for Minho to realize that these traits were the armour crafted by a very uncertain and vulnerable young man, one who cared greatly about others, but had little care to spare for himself. He kept others distant with his cold dismissive words, even as his actions betrayed him. He would wordlessly offer spare notes to classmates who had been ill. He pushed his lunches at other students who had less money, claiming he’d eaten a big breakfast. He asked questions in class, ones he already knew the answers to, because he could see others struggling to make sense of the work. A million little actions that added up to so much more than the distant and arrogant man his words made him seem. It was that realization that had let Minho go from being Newt’s boyfriend to his lover, having already leapt the barrier that separated them from being just convenient angry fuck buddies. The only thing he wanted now was to finally shed Newt of that layer of steel that kept him separate, even if it was only when they were in private. Minho wanted the blond to not need that armour, Minho wanted to _be_ that armour himself. 

Newt was already at the stereo system, unhooking his iPod and shoving it into his gym bag. His actions were sharp and decisive, a clear indication of the anger simmering beneath his cold exterior. 

“I’m sorry,” Minho began sheepishly, scratching absently at the back of his neck. He approached the older boy carefully, like walking over ice that cracked beneath his every step. “I jus–”

“You just _what_ , Minho?! _You just what_??” Newt’s voice was tight with rage, his face flushed and chest heaving. “You wanted to learn to dance? _You aren’t even trying!_!” Newt’s accusation stung, because he _was_ trying, the dark haired boy had been doing his best, but how was he supposed to keep up with a dancer of Newt’s level? “You’re just mocking me, making me go through this stupid act. Is it funny watching me get angry? Is it funny making me try over and over again? Is this about my past, about my leg? _Are you just doing this to laug–_ ”

It was Minho’s turn to interrupt this time. Newt was yelling now, his hands in balls so tight that his fingers had gone white, and his entire frame was trembling. He was verging on hysteria, and at first Minho had been so shocked he hadn’t been able to comprehend, let alone move, but finally it had clicked. With his own form of grace, not trained precision, but faultless instinct, he rushed the blond and captured his lips, cutting off the painful words that had been tumbling out. His arms wrapped around Newt as his tongue traced over those lips, begging for acceptance, for entrance. Hesitantly, the blond allowed it, and soon he was clinging to Minho like a life line. His kiss became sloppy and needy, teeth and tongue mashing against Minho, hurt and craving and wanting everything all at once. 

Tired from their attempts to dance, Minho slowly sank to the polished floor, bringing Newt with him, the blond straddling his lap. His hands slipped beneath the thin material of Newt’s tank top and caressed the heated flesh at the small of his back. Fingers threaded into Minho’s hair and tugged insistently, nails scraping against his scalp. The room was quiet except for the harsh rasp of their breathing as they explored each other with lips and hands and the warm familiar press of their bodies against each other. 

It was Newt who finally pulled away first. He ducked his head so that his sweaty bangs sheltered his eyes from Minho’s gaze. “’M sorry,” he mumbled in a whisper, words thick with tears. “Didn’t mean t'get so angry. I don’ know what…” He trailed off, sniffling messily, wiping at his face with the back of one curled up hand. 

Minho reached up and pried the hand down gently, using his own thumb to wipe away the stray tears still falling. “I’m sorry, Newt. I should’ve known better. I know you’re sensitive about the dancing thing, about…what happened.” Minho didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough that he understood that Newt’s dancing career hopes had ended in a traumatic way, one which still haunted the slender blond. “I honestly…I honestly had hoped this would bring us closer together. I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

“’S my fault, I got it in my head that you were laughing at me. That you thought it was funny to keep fucking up.”

Minho lifted one finger and crossed it over his heart. “I swear, those fuck ups were real. One hundred percent unadulterated Minho.” 

Newt laughed at that, a sincere sound that was almost exclusively reserved for Minho’s ears. It sparked a warm feeling in the younger man’s chest, and he couldn’t help himself but lean in and nip lightly at the crook of his lover’s neck, trailing teeth and tongue over the soft sensitive skin, tasting salt and sweat and something undefinably Newt. It made the blood pump faster in his veins and his heart want to burst from his chest. Before Newt, before their strange rivalry had evolved into this new and curious bond, Minho had never known that love could feel like this. You could drown in love. You could be burned by it. It could take the breath from your lungs and replace it, needing it more than the air itself. Newt was his everything, the fire that burned him, but also kept him warm. He was the ice that cooled his heated skin, but sometimes froze him out. He was the air he breathed and the earth he stood firm upon. Newt was more important than anything else, and as hard as he tried to show it, sometimes his own penchant for anger and sarcasm got in the way. Sometimes he messed up just because it was so hard to tell what the blond needed, or what might set him off. The worst was when everything seemed like it caused his boyfriend pain, when his words of praise and love caused more damage than good. How someone as amazing as Newt couldn’t see how unbelievable he was seemed unfathomable. Minho would spend every day trying to fix that, if only the other would let him in, let him try to soothe the damage in his heart. Still, the fact that they were holding each other again now, their words tentative, yet teasing, gave him hope that that day would come for them. 

“I should have known better. No one could be that bad on purpose.”

Minho chuckled against the other’s skin, feeling a pleasurable shiver run up Newt’s spine even as the boy ground his hips down against his own. “What say we go home, huh?” He asked huskily, pulling back to peer at Newt with darkened eyes. 

Newt shivered once more, but nodded, scrambling off Minho’s lap to grab his gym bag. He hurriedly shoved the rest of his stuff inside, zipping it shut, before turning back to his boyfriend. Minho already had his own bag in hand, and took Newt’s free hand in his own. 

Before exiting and locking up the room, Newt hesitated a moment at the door, staring back over the smooth wooden floors with a melancholic, wistful expression on his face. “Minho?” He asked quietly, still facing the room’s interior. 

“Yeah?” He replied, thumb running absently over the blond’s knuckles in a way the other boy loved. 

“Why did you ask me to teach you to dance? There are plenty of other things we could have done to be closer.”

Silence stretched out between them, long and charged with emotion. “I…” Minho paused, not sure how to continue. No. That was a lie, he knew how, just didn’t know if he should. Should he be honest? What would mean if he was? _What would it mean if he wasn’t?_ He found himself unable to say more, his heart racing just imagining the consequences. 

Newt looked back at him, eyes tender, but the vulnerability he usually kept so tightly masked was peering out at him, urging him to speak, to tell the truth. The insecure side of the boy was so broken, it was prepared for anything, especially the worst. It looked at him so hopelessly, so ready to be hurt, even if there had been no indications that that was what was to come. Minho knew in that instant what he needed to say. 

“I wanted to be able to dance at my wedding, without embarrassing my husband,” he answered softly, head tilted down, but eyes cast up to still watch the blond warily. He had no idea what to expect from his utterly magnificent, but high strung lover at that admission. He couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the situation, realizing that he was preparing his own heart for the worst. If it came down to that, he wasn’t certain what he would do. He could no longer remember how his life had managed to work before the blond had become both the tempestuous whirlwind that had thrown his world into unending chaos, but was also his calm refuge at the eye of the storm. Each silent second that ticked by cut deeply into heart. He could almost feel the thick blood turning black and congealing in his chest. 

A million emotions that Minho had no hope of tracking ran fleetingly across the blond’s face and through his eyes. He closed them after a moment, a look of serenity settling over his beautiful features. He looked more like an angel than ever, his face so calm and at peace, his golden hair shining like a halo in the fluorescent lights above. Then the tableau was ended, as Newt flicked off the lights wordlessly and exited, locking the door carefully behind them. 

“I wish you had told me,” Newt finally whispered as they left the building, entering out into the warm summer night. The breeze ruffled through their hair softly, and they walked closer, feeling the warmth of each other radiating from their skin. Though the shadows were cast long over both of their faces, Minho could see Newt’s dark eyes glimmering steadily in the twilight. It soothed the unsteady racing of his heart as it pounded frantically against his ribs, threatening to crack the bones in its ferocity. 

“I wasn’t certain how at first. Would things have gone differently if I had said so from the beginning?” He inquired thoughtfully, fingers squeezing tighter. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh,” a pause. “Damn.” 

“Yeah. There’s _no fucking way_ I’m dancing the waltz at our wedding, you dumb shank.”

There was a single beat of silence before both of them were laughing hysterically, holding each other up as they walked off toward the flat they now shared, hands still entwined and swinging carelessly between them. 

Without realizing it, they fell into step together, their motions fluid and perfectly in sync. It was completely unrehearsed, not even noticed, a natural byproduct of having been together for so long that neither was even aware when it had started happening. Although both boys were oblivious about their movements, it spoke loud and clear to anyone who might be watching that the two of them were already just as much one single person, a whole heart shared between two bodies that already danced together to a rhythm only they shared. 

**The End**


	2. The Hopes I Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho considers the hopes that he clings to, the hopes that keep him going, and the hopes he fears and longs for the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minewtbang, the Twelve Days of Minewt, Day Two: Hope

** The Hopes I Hold **

The word hope is cold comfort. A word I cling to in the last shadows of the day, when all the things that haunt me rear up from the pits they hide in when the sun is shining. When I am left alone with only my thoughts to get me through the long dark hours, only my hopes. 

I hope he's okay. 

I hope he's found something, anything, that can still make him happy. 

I hope he has friends, if that's even a word that still holds meaning amongst the people he's with now. 

I hope he hasn't done anything that I know he'd regret, the sort of thing he was so afraid of doing to us the last time we spoke. Somewhere inside him let there be a voice that tells him when to stop, when he's in danger of going too far. 

I hope he's found somewhere safe, a paradise of his own, where he can at least live out what ever kind of life is left to him. I saw them be vicious, but I also saw they were able to cooperate, like a pack of animals. They may be savage, but they can work together and take care of their own, keep each other going. 

I hope a lot of things. Some of those things may not seem so nice. 

I hope he doesn't remember Wicked, the pain they put him through, the lies, the tests, the torture. That anger would only tear him apart now, turn him into something even more unrecognizable than he was in that scummy palace we left him in. 

I hope he doesn't recall the Glade. All his friends, all those kids sent up to us in the box, and almost all of them now dead. If he's forgotten, then most of them are well and truly gone now, not a trace left. I still recall a handful of faces, and even fewer names, but he knew them all. Their names, their dreams, their fears, he was there for them through everything. Now they can truly be beyond anyone's reach, they can finally rest, if even he has let go of their memories. 

I hope he forgot our escape, the cost so high, too high, to only fall right back into another trap. Another test. We were never free, not really. I don't want him remembering his whole life was spent as a prisoner, even as now he's a prisoner of the Flare. 

I hope he doesn't remember jumping, of a feeling so dismal and unending he could only think of one way to escape it. The hardship of his recovery, the shame and guilt he struggled with, his limp a constant reminder even as he tried to make himself believe that things could go back to normal. The cruel promise that Alby, Nick, and I extracted from him, swearing to never do it again, to keep going for our selfish sakes, rather than for himself. How many of his smiles were real after that? How much misery were we forcing him to live with every day? I don't think he hated us though, not ever. He knew we were scared, knew we didn't know what to do if he wasn't there. It would be better if he can't recall just how important it was to us, just to have him with us. 

I...I hope he doesn't remember me. The way we ran the maze in the early days, like kids playing a game, each of us striving to best the others. The way we would fall into an exhausted heap at the end of the day, my own body sprawled out on the cool grass, his laying half on top of me, his ear pressed to my chest, listening to the pounding of my heart with a small smile on his face. The first time we kissed in the flickering light of the bonfire, our blood pounding and lips sweet from Gally's latest concoction. Hands roaming and grasping, mouths making messy trails over sweaty skin. Trying to stifle our moans as we would sneak away in the dwindling twilight towards the deadheads, clothes shed in a careless heap. Our heated bodies seeking each other out in curiosity, in companionship, in love, in the fear that any day could be our last together. Nights spent wrapped in each other's arms and words, in the tenuous uncertainty that what we were doing might be wrong, but it felt so right, so natural. Our hands entwined, your face pressed against the crook of my neck, your good leg thrown carelessly over mine, your own subtle way of claiming me, protecting me. I wish I had been able to protect you in return, but there are some things even I can't fight against, keep you safe from. 

The darkest part of my heart hides the worst of my secret hopes. 

I hope he's dead. He belongs somewhere better than this world holds. Better than the hell that covers most of the land 

I hope I'll join him again someday, no matter where he is, that's where I want to be. 

I hope it's soon. I like to think he has forgotten me, because I know how miserable it is to live on alone, waking each day knowing that a part of you is missing, the part you need the most. I don't want him to have to live with that pain. 

Finally I hope that I'll never leave his side again. The only place I ever felt I truly belonged. That's what I hope. 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> For future warning, more tags may be added as chapters are posted. 
> 
> Also, check out the entire event at minewtbang.tumblr and join in on the festivities!


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